Pulling Teeth
by Glittermonkey
Summary: A trip to the dentist, a trip into the past. And Grouchy!Curt.


**Pulling Teeth**

* Author: glittermonkey@earthlink.net   
* Pairing: C/B. Does pairing matter when they don't *do* anything?   
* Categories: Random Vignette   
* Rating: G   
* Disclaimer: *points to the Todd-meister* That guy owns them.   
* Summary: Raise your hands if you actually like going to the   
dentist? *crickets chirp, tumbleweed blows by* Uh-huh,   
I thought so.   
* Feedback: Gods, yes. Any acknowledgement at all is treasured.   
* Gratitude: To devy and Guen for taking a peek beforehand and   
reassuring me that I might be a flake, but at least   
I can formulate a coherent sentence. For Lydia and   
LaConstance, whose constant virtual whipcracks keep   
us on our toes and sufficiently guilty if we fail   
  
* Notes: Okay, so I've been in far too fluffy a mindset lately   
to work on anything that might require more than one   
brain cell. And I guess this can also be partially   
blamed on the dental hygiene promotional posters that   
my dentist keeps on his walls, which seriously do   
date back to circa late 60's, early 70's... ack. 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

SLADE RESIDENCE -- BIRMINGHAM -- DAY 1957 

"Thomas! Come out at once. Right this minute!" 

The stern shrillness of Allison Slade's voice reverberated off the numerous tastefully papered walls adorning the family's small two-story condominium home. Somewhere on the receiving end of that echoing ultimatum, a small brown-haired boy hid quietly underneath his parents' frill-edged bed, steadfastly refusing to reveal himself. 

"I'll count to three and if I don't see you come down those stairs..." 

He tried his hardest not to sneeze as a large puff of dust wafted ever closer to his face, carried on the tiniest of breezes emanating from the floral-curtained windows. He wrinkled his freckled nose and blew at the dustbunny in irritation, trying to get it out of the way. He only succeeded in dislodging a lock of carefully combed hair, which immediately flopped down into his eyes, further obscuring his view of what was going on outside. 

"I'm warning you, this is your last chance... if your father and I have to search the house, you'll be grounded one day for every minute we spend looking. Did you hear that? Now stop this foolishness and come out. NOW!" 

Patrick Slade winced and unobtrusively took a step further away from his dearly beloved but rather strident wife. Then he looked down at his watch and cleared his throat. "The appointment's in ten minutes, dear. We really need to be going." 

Snapping her head in his direction, Mrs Slade gave Mr Slade a steely blue-eyed glare. "Don't you think I already know that? What do you think I've been trying to do these past fifteen minutes?" 

At this point, Patrick wisely decided that he would be much more useful somewhere else. Anywhere else. In fact, he was sure he'd just heard a rustling sound in the direction of his study. Right near the liquor cabinet, if he wasn't mistaken. Yes, he'd better go investigate that at once. "I'll go search for Thomas in the next room, darling. Call me if you need any..." 

Allison stalked off towards the stairs by way of an answer, effectively dismissing him. Patrick heaved a sigh of relief. 

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, little Thomas edged even further backwards into a particularly dim corner of his hastily chosen sanctuary. He bumped into one wrought iron leg of the bed and quietly curled in upon himself, listening with dread to the heavy footsteps making their way up the stairs. A sudden wash of dizziness overcame him and he realised he'd been holding his breath for what must have been the past five minutes. Drawing in fresh air slowly and silently, he tried once again to avoid ingesting any balls of dust in the process. He considered with some disdain the disheveled state that he must certainly be in. However, desperate times called for desperate measures. 

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 

OFFICE OF DR. PETER AIKENS, BDS DGDP -- LONDON -- DAY 1973 

"You go in." 

"No, you first." 

"Why me first? Why am I even here? There's nothing wrong with me." 

"Curt, you know that's besides the point. Jerry makes all of us go through a compulsory annual medical and dental examination before we start touring. It's just a precaution. It was in the contract," Brian tried to keep as calm and reasonable a tone as possible as he explained this, but Curt just slumped even lower in his seat and crossed his arms skeptically. "There's no way out of this. Besides, you should be thankful. It took hours of pleading to stop Jerry from sending you out for a flea dip." 

"You're not funny. And I'm not going." 

"Fine, be that way." Brian crossed his arms as well, refusing to say another word. With an equal mix of irritation and trepidation, they both glanced toward the inner office door. The high-pitched whine of drills could be heard through the thin wooden partition. 

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 

OFFICE OF DR. BERNARD SPENCE, BDS DGDP -- BIRMINGHAM -- DAY 1957 

A sharp keening yowl emanated from the room just beyond reception, setting Patrick's teeth on edge and causing Allison to rise from her chair in concern. It sounded almost as if they were ritually torturing a very indignant wild animal back there. They both peered cautiously towards the small check-in window, where they could just barely glimpse, beyond the receptionist's area, the shape of a reclined examination chair. There appeared to be a great amount of frantic motion in that room, then abrupt silence. 

As the sound of rapid footsteps came towards the door, they both sat back in their seats, trying to look as unperturbed as possible. Allison patted at her neatly arranged coiffure, smoothing a nonexistent strand of hair back into place. Patrick picked up the nearest magazine on the wall rack and opened it to a particularly fascinating article on spaniels. They both watched the door out of the corners of their eyes. 

Moments later, the door swung violently outwards. There was the sound of crunching plaster as the knob imbedded itself in the wall. A positively incensed-looking man in his early fifties, wearing a soaking wet lab coat and rapidly turning a bright shade of carmine, limped dramatically into the room. Right behind him, being dragged along choking by the collar of his shirt, was an equally disgruntled-looking Thomas. 

Mr and Mrs Slade exchanged a look of dismay, their first mutual sentiment in well over a month. They'd known this would happen. Well, they'd been afraid it would happen. Perhaps after the amount of time lapsed since their last attempt, they'd managed to block out what might happen. Patrick sighed in resignation. Allison shook her head. This would be, after all, the sixth dentist they'd visited in the last seven months. 

When Dr Spence finally collected himself enough to speak -- if the nasal growling sound he was making could be considered speech, it was something to the extent of, "He bit me! He BIT me!" He shoved Thomas in the general direction of the exit and accusingly held out his injured hand. Allison nodded politely as she noted the sizable wound her son had made. She thought it better not to speak. Besides, from the man's general state, she was certain that the bite had been only one of several sputtering perceived injustices. So it was much to both parents' relief when the receptionist hurriedly opened the door for them and motioned for them to make their escape. As they trotted off, they could still hear a disparaging voice from the office exclaiming, "That THING BIT ME!" 

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 

OFFICE OF DR. PETER AIKENS, BDS DGDP -- LONDON -- DAY 1973 

Curt noticed that Brian had started nibbling at a particularly stubborn hangnail on his right thumb. As time dragged on, it escalated into a more pronounced gnawing behavior, similar to that which a desperate raccoon stuck in a steel trap might exhibit. If he hadn't know better, Curt would have easily mistaken this for a sign of nervousness. But that was ridiculous. What the hell did Brian Slade have to worry about, other than the amount of whitener that would be applied to keep that perfectly aligned smile a camera-friendly shade of blinding? 

No, if anyone had a right to be getting antsy around here, if any person had some serious issues with this whole pointless excursion, that person was Curt. Having men in white coats shine bright lights in his face while being held immobile in a metal chair, he thought wryly, was simply not an experience that he would voluntarily submit to. No way, no how, not an option. He'd inflict bodily harm before he'd step across that office threshold. And that was that. 

All the same, Curt mused as he took another quick glance, noting that in addition to the industrious nail-biting, Brian's left knee had now developed an insistent bobbing motion, he did seem a lot more fidgety than usual. 

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 

LIMO INTERIOR -- STREETS OF LONDON -- 1973 -- TEN MINUTES LATER 

Nobody had to know they hadn't actually gone in for examinations -- the receptionist he'd spoken with had seemed perfectly willing to put things in order for them. A few photocopied records here, a signature there... no difference whatsoever. It was all peripheral anyway, no big loss. 

They'd left, of course, because of Curt. Brian had been concerned solely with Curt's well-being. He might not have stated as much, but after that first adamant refusal, Brian had suspected there might be other factors at work besides Curt's natural belligerence. Perhaps it was better to investigate this further before insisting on going through with it. They would investigate as soon as they got back to their rooms, he decided. Or maybe after they'd ordered lunch and relaxed a bit. No big rush. It was for the good of all involved, he concluded, that they had left when they did. In fact, it was a thoughtful display of sensitivity, if he did say so himself. 

Brian glanced back out the side window as the brown stone office building faded from view. He'd have to remember to bring Curt along on these trips more often. 

-finis- 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


End file.
